


where the love light gleams

by haloud



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28206237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: Five Christmases Alex and Michael spend together from 2010 to 2021; from Roswell and from elsewhere; as lovers, in limbo, and back again.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 23
Kudos: 109





	where the love light gleams

**Author's Note:**

> a gift for britt, christi, tove, nin, L, brooke, and soberqueerinthewild <3 <3 <3 <3 i love and appreciate you guys so much

  1. _December 24, 2010 7:52 pm_



Happiest time of the year. Sure.

Michael wings his pencil at the ceiling of his trailer and catches it. Thinks about calling his sister. Tosses the pencil again. Thinks about the kids at the group home, wonders which ones of them the three stuffed animals he got from Goodwill are gonna go to. Tosses the pencil again. Wonders when Sanders is gonna notice the missing wire and chase him off his property and straight into a cell. Whatever. The pencil clatters behind his chair, between the bench and the wall. He slumps down, shirt rucking up as he goes, exposing warm skin to chilly winter night air and resenting it.

Whatever.

According to his watch, it’s almost eight. The early Christmas Eve mass is already out; the Pritchards will either be home making some other poor kid read out of the family Bible until they mispronounce a word or some shit and…Michael makes a furious noise and forces himself to think of something else. Anyway, his case worker told him back in the day the Pritchards would never get another kid, and who knows if that lady could be trusted, but hey. He’s heard tell this is a time for hope and joy, so he might as well hope for that, at least. Anyway, it’s more likely they’re at some Salvation Army do so they can rest snug in their beds tonight, brined in their own self-righteousness.

God damn Christmas Eve is the slowest night on the face of the planet. Every year, Michael circles December 26th on his calendar.

He shoves his drafting table (ok, a small card table missing its legs that he props up with TK) aside to stand up and stretch. He glances at the shitty cell phone Isobel pawned off on him (“I’m getting a new one anyway, and you don’t have to talk to me all the time, but god damn it Michael I draw the line at not having any way to know if you’re alive or dead—“). He should call her. It would make her happy.

Just when he reaches for his phone, though, it erupts with the irritating text chime he never turned off, making him scowl deeply. Text conversations with Isobel and her unlimited bullshit are the worst “convenience” of this goddamn thing, and she knows how much he hates it, so why—

He flips it open and the message is from a number saved to his phone simply as _Don’t._

_Sands Motel on 70 outside of Elida. Room 19. AM_

It’s less than 10 words, and Michael has his shoes on before he’s finished reading.

By the time he’s stuffed an extra shirt, a couple pairs of underwear, and a toothbrush in a backpack, he’s had plenty of time to sufficiently hate himself for even hoping this is more than an invitation to blow off steam for an hour before being left behind in a shitty motel room.

But. He has to go anyway. He already pissed away one chance at closure, one chance at saying goodbye. If this is his last chance…if it comes with the chance to touch Alex again, to see him and smell him and hear his voice, feel the tickle of soft dark hair against his cheek, feel skin against his skin again, he shudders just thinking about it, every atom of his skin crawling with desperate need.

Alex.

He tosses his backpack beside him on the bench of his truck and turns the key. He floors it.

Fifteen minutes down the highway, his phone jangles again and, cursing, he fishes it out of his pocket.

“What, Isobel?” He asks, but the words are lost immediately in a rush of words from someone else.

“Shit, I’ve read the text I sent like two hundred times and it sounds like a booty call but I swear I didn’t mean it that way, unless you want it to be that way, I know we haven’t talked and you probably hate me and it’s dangerous anyway, but I’ll pay for gas and shit do you even have texting? I’m wasting your minutes now too but fuck I’ll pay for that too, Michael, Guerin, I just want to see you I’ve got two days of leave and the room’s already reserved and I miss you, oh god, so much, I don’t even care if it’s pathetic or if you haven’t thought of me at all I—”

“Alex.”

It’s quiet; Michael can only force so much air through his throat right now, but it’s loud enough to cut off Alex’s heartbreaking babbling.

“I’m already on my way,” he says.

There are so many other things to say. I’m sorry too. I miss you too. Just hearing your voice again is enough to keep me going for two more years.

Okay, maybe not that last one, you creep. Anyway, it’s too hard to get breath in his lungs to say any of them, and Alex is already responding, as winded as Michael feels, “Okay. See you soon.”

They don’t speak for almost a minute, just listening to each other exist on each end of the line that it took this long to open up between them, that they’re each too frozen and helpless to close. At least until Alex speaks again, so, so gently.

“Okay, Michael. Just focus on the road, okay? You can hang up, I’m—. I’m waiting for you, okay?”

“See you soon,” Michael croaks back. “I lo—See you soon.”

Alex is still the one to hang up first, though, and Michael is grateful for it, driving with two fingers, right hand frozen stiff around his phone until he manages to drop it back to the seat.

It’s Christmas Eve. No one is on the road. The night is clear and moonless and the galaxy streaks across the night, a clear path to follow home, Earth clinging to the outermost swirling arm of the Milky Way, the proverbial highway motel of the stars.

Home is what you make of it.

It’s Christmas Eve, but Michael turns the radio on to keep him company anyway, ready, for the first time in his life, to celebrate something.

\----

He parks the car and runs to the right door so fast his breath goes quick, clouding the frigid air, but then he stops, frozen, unable to make himself knock.

Alex, on the other side of this door.

Michael doesn’t have a Christmas gift for him.

Tears ball up in his throat, and he shoves his fists under his arms to warm them up. How could he show up here empty-handed? Alex is paying for the room, offered to pay for other things…was the one to reach out and contact him, after Michael, after he didn’t even say goodbye, and _anything_ could have happened in the year and a half since then. He’s thought of, he’s cataloged each and every possibility, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to see Alex whole, be reminded of everything he stands to lose…

But what is he going to do? Turn around and leave when he’s already told Alex he’s coming? Leave Alex sitting there, sitting up, for hours waiting for him?

He knocks frantically, but before his knuckles hit wood even three times, the door is yanked open, and he’s yanked forward, and the both of them stumble forward, trip, weak knees hit old carpet, there’s a warm body in Michael’s arms, quick damp breath on his neck, sweaty hands clutching fistfuls of his jacket.

“Alex,” he sobs, and squeezes him so tight it hurts them both.

“Michael, Michael—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Michael!”

“How are you? Are you okay? Did they hurt you? I’m sorry. Alex.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m sorry too—”

Then Michael is pulled back, just enough for Alex to get his hands in between them, trembling fingers wiping at the tears on his cheeks, and Michael blinks through clouded eyes to get a better look at him, his brutally short hair, the holes where his jewelry used to be, but no new scars Michael can see, and he looks, he does look the _same._ Michael’s insides are all jelly with relief; he couldn’t stand even if he tried right now. He tucks his feet around Alex’s ankles, twining them together every way he can. Alex pulls him closer too, hands sliding down his back and then under his shirt so he can cling to skin.

“Hi,” Michael whispers.

“Hi,” Alex whispers back. The lamplight shines in his eyes as he searches Michael’s—for what, Michael doesn’t know, just holds that gaze for as long as they both possibly can.

“You’re here,” Michael says, and the tears are back, spilling over his lashes, and he ducks his face to press against Alex’s shoulder, shuddering when Alex’s hand comes down against his hair, petting him firmly. Something, some word, rumbles through Alex’s throat and Michael can’t hear, settles for feeling it where his ear is pressed to Alex’s hot skin.

After an unknowable number of minutes twined together as closely as two bodies can be, Michael pulls his head back—Alex uncurls one arm and lays it out so Michael has a place to rest his head, and they look at each other.

“I—” Alex clears the leftover tears out of his throat— “The front office had free hot chocolate packets and I grabbed a couple. It’s not much, but…”

“That sounds great,” Michael says. “Later. We can—we can share a cup, watch the Yule Log channel or something. Or we can run to the Dollar Store and get snacks or something. But for now…”

He reaches over and snags the comforter off the bed. It’s scratchy and old, but it’s patterned with pine trees in a way that’s close enough to seasonal to make Michael’s heart swell as he bundles them both up in it.

“I just want to be here with you,” he whispers, and he just touches their lips together, softly enough for Alex to pull away if he wants.

“I want that too. Merry Christmas, Michael.”

And Michael kisses him, rolling them back together again.

* * *

  1. _December 24, 2013 8:26 pm_



The Wild Pony is decked out in Christmas lights and holly, the table tops gleaming, place settings put out on a cluster of them in the corner. The door wasn’t locked, but no one is around but Maria, in a pool of light behind the bar, tying bows around centerpieces. She doesn’t look up when he steps into the room.

It isn’t new to him, feeling like an outsider. But here, now, he feels uniquely unmoored.

It’s Christmas Eve. Fuck. What a dumbass he is. And pathetic, coming to a bar on Christmas Eve like some kind of fuckup divorcee who didn’t get invited to Grandma’s house to be with the family. Isobel and Max—or, well, just Isobel—try to include him every year, it’s his own fault for saying no every goddamn time. It’s also probably his fault, somehow, that he hasn’t heard from Alex in months, even though the last two Christmas Eves—even though everything was fine the last letter he got, even though he recites the last letter he _sent_ in his head every goddamn night wondering what he said wrong, what he did—even though—

Whatever. He’s just going to be radiating misery and self-pity everywhere he goes, trying to drown out the sound of hope inside his own mind, that unkillable glowing insect whispering that it isn’t Christmas yet, Alex might still... He should just turn around and beat it before imposing even more on whatever Maria has planned with her friends and with her mom.

“Hey, Guerin. What brings you out here?” She asks before he can move, just glancing up at him.

“Just lost track of time, believe it or not,” he lies, easily.

But despite his innocuous line, her face falls completely, just for a second; but she fixes it back to neutral before he can say a word.

“Next year I’ll get you a calendar,” she teases instead. “Get over here and hold this for me while I finish tying it, okay?”

He could make decorating even easier, with his powers. The urge to say it is completely absurd. Max would kill him. But wouldn’t it feel good? To just blurt it out, to risk everything? To be someone, something, that isn’t lonely and shoved aside and hiding?

Outside of his head, he just slouches over and holds the damn ribbon. She ties it off quickly, then takes a step back to examine her handiwork. Michael recognizes the dusty glass candleholder from the flea market a few months past, as well as other pieces of the other centerpieces, each one mismatched but done up with pine sprigs and ribbons and fabric flowers into something cohesive and worthy of any fancy holiday event he’s ever been to with Isobel.

“Looking good, DeLuca,” he says, and she bats him lightly on the arm, but her smile is the only reward he needs.

“Pssh. No need to butter me up. They look fine.”

“Right, you got me.”

Leaving the centerpieces, she crouches down and pulls another box of decorations out from under the bar and starts rummaging through it.

“I interrupting?” Michael asks, their camaraderie burst like a bubble and the alienation back around his shoulders like an old coat.

She looks him up and down, her expression inscrutable, but then her face softens, and she slaps a gift ribbon onto his hat.

“Nope. Consider yourself officially invited to the fifteenth annual DeLuca-Ortecho Christmas Extravaganza, Guerin. Go grab a mop and help me finish getting set up.”

Michael enjoys cleaning: enjoys the simple, repetitive tasks, enjoys, for a limited time, making order out of chaos before entropy sets back in. He and Maria don’t talk, but it is a companionable kind of silence as they share each other’s space.

She breaks it eventually, though, saying, “They’ll be here soon.”

“Who’s coming?” Michael asks. “Other than your mom and Mr. Ortecho, I mean? Is Liz home?” He swallows a lump in his throat.

“Oh, everyone from the Crashdown comes by with their families, usually, and make it a real party. Mom brings some friends, people come in and out, it’s nice to be surrounded by people, y’know?”

Her smile is small and forced, and she doesn’t mention inviting her own friends, and she doesn’t have to, because around her wrist is a hand-beaded bracelet the twin of the one left on Rosa’s memorial, and Michael holds himself very still trying his best not to feel his own heart beating.

“Sure, if you’re into that sort of thing,” he says, lightly, and she nods in agreement.

“Only then, for sure.” Then continues, looking down, scrubbing the gleaming bar top like it owes her money. “Anyway, I did invite someone else, but he’s probably not going to make it, so…”

A sympathetic noise claws its way out of his throat, and he ducks his head before she can look up at him. How many times? How many years did the first cloud of cold breath, the first shitty Christmas jingle at the shitty convenience store, the first festive lights blinking blankly on the tops of buildings worm their way into his skull thinking maybe, _maybe_ this year would be the one, another visit, another leave, another phone call, another anything, and silent days and silent nights went by in one big blur and Michael hates himself, because every year this crappy holiday with its crappy, hollow slogans about love and giving and peace and hope forces him to remember he's a fucking idiot defining himself within the bounds of someone else’s body, only believing he exists when he is real to Alex Manes.

Maria claps her hands together and says brightly, “Okay! Arturo is going to show up in like fifteen minutes probably and if we’re not done and ready to party by the time he gets here, he’s going to try and do everything himself, so let’s get this stuff put away.”

“I’ll do it, if you wanna go freshen up,” Michael says, plucking the cleaning rag out of her hand and heading over to put the mop back in the closet.

“Excuse you, Michael Guerin, I—”

“Maria. You clean this place all day every day, okay? And nobody’s gonna be looking at or worrying about me, I just thought you might wanna…I dunno.”

Whatever he was going to say fizzles out, because there’s no good way to mention how tired she looks, how even Michael can tell she’s worried about something, and lonely, and not in the mood to celebrate. They aren’t that close. But he knows her—or maybe just knows _himself—_ well enough to know that her night will only get harder if people are fussing over her.

“Oh—” he says, air pushed out of him by Maria throwing her arms around him and giving him a squeeze.

“Okay, Guerin,” she murmurs into his chest. Lightly, so lightly, like the moment might shatter at any second, Michael rests his hand on the middle of her back, his cheek on the top of her head, holding her as she holds him, a real hug. Then she clears her throat, he drops his hands, she tweaks his chin, she walks away, and she disappears behind the bar into the staff bathroom, and he’s alone, holding a mop.

Okay.

Everything is set to rights by the time there are footsteps on the porch, and Maria is back out bright-eyed and neat by the time Mr. Ortecho opens the door and beelines to give her a hug, lifting her an inch off her feet.

“Oh, you look so beautiful,” he says, and her smile for him is soft and genuine, the kind of smile you’d give to a parent. Michael isn’t jealous.

“You’re not looking too bad yourself, Mr. Ortecho,” Maria replies, adjusting his Christmas-red bowtie.

Mimi follows Arturo in and heads over to sweep the both of them into a hug, tossing her jacket on a table as she goes. Michael takes it up to hang it over a chair—might as well make himself useful.

He does this for several more guests, the bar filling up with a steady trickle of people, their voices warming the room to the rafters, laughter and chatter and smiles all around. Michael heads behind the bar, as Maria’s still swept up in greetings and small talk. He can spike eggnog with the best of them, and he only steals a little, y’know, as compensation. This goes on for almost an hour before Maria notices and beelines for him, mouth opening either on a thanks or a reprimand, whichever, when the door opens one more time.

Maria gasps so loud it’s almost a scream, her hands flying up to her mouth. And in the eruption of happy shouts and people talking all at once, no one even notices the shattering of the glass previously held in Michael’s numb fingers.

Alex, in full uniform, standing so stiff and at attention he looks like a wind-up toy, takes his hat off his head. His eyes dart around the room, widening when they fall on Michael, the apple of his throat bobbing. Michael rounds the corner of the counter. He knows better than to run to him, here, now, but still he has to get closer…has to…

Maria does what Michael can’t, and it loosens some of the terrible sharp tension in his chest that _someone_ leaps at Alex and wraps their arms around him, spinning him in a hug, brings a smile to his face as he wraps his arms around to catch her. The party swings back into motion, sound filling back in the vacuum as Arturo and Mimi rush to hug Alex too and everyone else gives them their moment. Michael blows out a breath and creeps along the bar to slump against a wall and let his heartbeat work itself out. People can get their own drinks for a few minutes.

It takes half an hour for Maria to leave Alex’s side, and again, it’s what Alex deserves, to have someone who adores him so openly, a true friend. Michael slips outside before they’re parted to catch his breath in the open air, away from the heavy scents of candles and people and peppermint schnapps. On the patio, he presses his back to the cold wood and lets out a cloud of breath.

Alex is safe.

Alex is alive.

Alex came home for Christmas and had people to welcome him.

These are good things, so Michael smiles.

He’s still smiling, a small and awkward thing, when the door opens to his left, and he turns, and Alex takes a step outside and closes the door so softly behind himself.

“I slipped away,” he says, low, though no one is around to hear them, but his next words are quiet and hoarse with none of the hiding intent, “I was so scared you’d left, I was so scared I wouldn’t see you—"

And Michael’s hands are shaking, furtive, gripping the fabric of Alex’s uniform twofold, and he’s so close he can see that Alex’s hands are the same, twisting his hat over and over again, fingertips cold, knuckles white.

“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers, so quick and rough and pained, “I’m sorry, I should have changed, I should have called, I know you hate it, I’m sorry, my leave was only granted a few hours ago and I hopped right on a plane, I was going to see you I promise, please, Michael, please—”

“Alex,” Michael says, almost a whimper, almost a prayer, the way it bounces around his own skull even though he was only trying to spread some comfort over Alex’s ragged edges. “Alex, it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re here. Oh god. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Alex hiccups, holding Michael so tight he can’t do anything but believe him.

The front door is hung with mistletoe, and it’s Christmas Eve, and they’re together, and they do their best to honor it.

* * *

  1. _December 25, 2015 12:00 am_



“Hey.”

“H-hey.”

Rain rattles on the roof of the Airstream, turns the windows wet and black as ink. The rush of static that is Alex’s breath in his ear brings an always-pacing part of his brain to a standstill just to listen.

Alex.

It’s midnight in Roswell, midmorning in Mosul. Alex must have planned his day around making sure he had time to make this call right now, just as the clock ticked over to Christmas for Michael. There’s no other reason for the timing, when every time they’ve spoken on the phone Alex has painstakingly ensured it’s a “normal” hour for Michael, so as not to wake him up.

Most of Michael’s dreams are about Alex anyway. Even the nightmares. Michael wouldn’t mind being woken up if it was by Alex’s voice reaching out to him across miles and in spite of whatever they said to each other last time, but Alex has, historically, been unable to be convinced of that.

“Merry Christmas,” Alex says softly.

“Merry Christmas,” Michael echoes.

Alex doesn’t ask what he’s up to or what his plans are for tomorrow; he already knows the answer is nothing, but that’s why he’s here. For once, no defensive instinct rises in Michael over the whole thing. He drifts in the knowing Alex has of him. That’s where peace is, for him.

“How are you doing?” Michael asks.

Another deep breath, another rush of static. With his eyes closed and his heart open, he can almost imagine it leaving sound and becoming sensation, a caress.

Alex says, “Okay. Pretty much business as usual.” He pauses. “Several of the guys got reassigned, so it’s been kind of lonely.”

Michael opens his eyes. _You wouldn’t have to be lonely if you’d listened to me and hadn’t re-upped. I don’t want you to be lonely. I don’t want to be lonely either._

Because he is. The ability to call—the fact that Alex _will_ call him—is all Michael feels like he has, some days, but he’d be lying if he said wholeheartedly it was enough.

“I wish I could see you,” he says. The words taste bitter coming out, but Alex drinks his coffee black.

“I’ve been thinking about that all day, too. I…um, you should talk to Maria, because I sent both of you something. I hope you like it.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Do you know when you’re gonna be back in the States?”

“No. And I can’t talk about it, Michael.”

He’s switched into soldier mode. So stiff and official, like Michael ought to give a damn about protocol or whatever.

But just because he feels insignificant doesn’t mean Alex is, or that no one could listen in. So he just says, “I know,” and lets it lie.

“But it’s good to hear your voice. It’s…all I wanted for Christmas this year.”

That hits Michael deep in his chest. Hits him like a fist to his solar plexus. He almost wants to moan out the agony it causes.

“If I could have, I’d have called you when it was your midnight,” Michael says, fingers clenching around his phone. He’d tried last year, to be the one to reach out for the holiday. His package was returned to sender, and it’s still stuffed under his bed because he hadn’t had the energy to unpack it and would just have ended up destroying what’s inside. He rolls over to curl around his own soft, vulnerable stomach and fiddles with the strings of the old black Fall Out Boy hoodie Alex doesn’t know he’s wearing, doesn’t know he’s got the room key from two years ago in his pocket, warm with his own body heat.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

You’re not. You’re not. If you were sorry you would be somewhere other than a stupid, pointless war. Michael doesn’t say it. All his resentment and pain, they’re weapons he turns inwards whenever he can. Pointing them at Alex…there’s no point, except to hurt. And that’s not the kind of person Michael wants to be.

So he says, “Don’t apologize. It is what it is.”

“Mmm.”

Silence again. In person, silence is warm, has breath and a heartbeat. Over the phone no amount of imagination Michael can muster makes it anything that real. Alex could hang up whenever, and that would be that. But he doesn’t, and Michael clings to that like a life raft.

“How much time do we have left?” he asks.

“I’m staying on the line until someone comes to kick me off,” Alex says, voice the clearest and firmest it’s been all night.

“Don’t get in trouble on my account.”

“Let me worry about that. Tell me about something you’ve been working on. Or about the horses on the ranch. Or about Mr. Sanders’s latest antics. I just…just want to hear your voice, okay?”

It’s probably interference on the line that splits Alex voice like tears would, or at least that’s what Michael tells himself.

“Okay. Um, well, you know how Isobel always calls me a Grinch for not celebrating?”

“Yeah.”

“Well when she came by last week to try and cajole me into having dinner with her, Max, and their parents, I’d stacked up a pile of sacks, you know, like in the cartoon, and tied a horn onto Old Sanders’s dog…”

He grins only when Alex bursts out into real laughter. If Michael could see him, he’d see his dark eyes sparkle and crinkle at the corners, see how he rocks when he laughs for real like he doesn’t know what to do with all the energy laughter generates, like his body never learned to process it. Even after all this time, the image is seared into his mind. He wraps an arm around himself.

“That’s incredible, Michael.”

“Oh, that’s not all. You should have seen her reaction…”

He talks, and talks, until the very last minutes of their call are drained away, thirsty and clumsy-mouthed, but it’s all worth it for each tiny gem of Alex’s laughter, each response a pearl tucked away for safekeeping, to get him through the long winter that stops not when spring starts to warm the earth but when he hears from Alex again, knows he’s okay out there somewhere. He may not hear from him again until next Christmas. But when that happens, he’ll be here, waiting.

“I have to go,” Alex says, each word heavy with dread, and Michael sighs. He knows, he does, that this is no easier for Alex than it is for him. He might forget that again the very next lonely night, but right now, he knows.

“Okay. Merry Christmas, Alex.”

“Merry Christmas, Michael. I love you.”

The dial tone hits before he has a chance to say it back. Michael’s heart pounds like he’s run a marathon, mouth hanging open. He fumbles with his phone to text it, _I love you,_ fingers shaking the whole time, _I love you,_ and outside the windows the rain turns over to snow, _I love you,_ and Christmas morning gets closer and closer, _I love you,_ and inside, Michael is warm.

* * *

  1. _December 25, 2019 8:21 am_



Michael feared a few side effects when he caved and he and Alex started working together to find more information about Nora—about his mother. He feared what the proximity would do to his resolve to break the cycle they’d been stuck in for the past decade; he feared they’d just fight more, detonating any chance they had of staying in each other’s lives _without_ the sex and romance. But he hadn’t known to expect the new side effects, like the way his old dreams about Alex dead at his feet, dead on the other side of the world, dead to him and happier because of it, are newly sprinkled with dreams of him on trial for treason thanks to the hacking he’s done to get some of this information.

So it’s Christmas morning, and he’s just going to drive by Alex’s, make sure his car is still there and everything is quiet and still. A new habit, the only thing that settles his whirling mind when he wakes up in a cold sweat and needs to know that Alex is okay. Maybe it makes him a little creepy, but it’s less daunting, less intrusive, than picking up the phone to call him. And it aches less, driving past a house that barely even registers as _Alex_ in his head, than it would to listen to him on the other end of a phone again.

It’s fucking cold out, enough to have Michael shivering in his jacket and flannel pants as he starts down the road, waiting for the engine to warm enough for the heater to work. He’s warm, though, by the time he turns down Alex’s empty street, passing each tucked-in driveway until he gets to the end, Alex’s house, with its excellent view of the entire approach.

And Alex, sitting on the patio, viewing it.

Fuck.

Fuck, should he turn around? Is it too late already? Probably. Alex wouldn’t live anywhere that he couldn’t see people coming from a mile away. And sure enough, as he approaches, anxiety congealing in his stomach (turn around, turn _around_ , pretend it never happened, don’t do this), Alex waves him into the driveway.

“Is everything okay?” Alex calls as Michael gets out of the car.

“Uh, yeah. Just—just checking to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Michael just shrugs, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets. He has no explanation and no plans to pretend he does and no way in hell can he describe what waking up is like and the sucking hole in his chest that’s only soothed by physical proof Alex is okay.

Alex _looks_ okay. Soft and dressed down in a way that makes Michael yearn to reach for him, in a way that’s as impossible to resist but resist he does, like a few weeks ago when he returned the guitar. Since then, he’s only seen Alex in uniform. In his pajamas, a scuffed old Buffy mug in his hands, hair tousled, tip of his nose red from the wind, he’s…

Michael swallows and stops that thought in its tracks. He’s not for Michael, that’s what he is. They’ve proven that plenty.

“Well, I am. Okay, that is.”

“Uh. Yeah, um, good.” Michael clears his throat. “I’ll get out of your hair, then.”

But as soon as he’s turned to go, Alex says, “Michael, wait.”

He turns back to face him, an eyebrow raised.

“You should sit for a while. If you want to. There’s more coffee inside, and…well, Maria and Liz always spend this morning with family, and it’d be nice to have a little company…?”

He doesn’t meet Michael’s eyes but for a single, darting second, and then he’s back to watching the steam curl off the surface of his coffee. And Michael breaks, sliding himself into the chair across from Alex.

The invitation must have been extended before Alex remembered how little they have to say to each other these days—or maybe not, because Alex just closes his eyes, and when he takes his next sip his mouth curls around the rim of his mug almost like he might be smiling.

“Any plans for today?” Alex asks.

“Nah, you know me. Same as usual. I thought, maybe, with Isobel…but she’s as forced to be with her folks as ever, and with Max gone, she’s not feeling very festive. I get it. And Maria’s still not talking to me, so…”

There was a time that “same as usual” would have meant Alex and only Alex, the only person who could make Christmas anything to Michael, the only gift he ever asked for, the only charity he’d never deny. That same memory crosses Alex’s face, too, as he traces one finger around the rim of his mug.

“Hey, promise, I won’t foist any attempts at holiday cheer off on you this year,” Alex jokes weakly.

And something a little hurt, a little indignant, a lot defensive of the dark-eyed boy from those motel rooms and dark corners at parties and midnight phone calls, makes Michael blurt, “Hey, that shit was important.”

Alex raises his eyebrows, parts his mouth.

“To me, anyway,” Michael mutters.

“I…”

“I probably wasn’t great at showing it, I guess.”

“No, I…I think I just made myself forget. The past few years, when we haven’t done it, you know?”

He knows.

Alex smiles at him for real this time. Michael wants to hold his hands around his mug, heat him from both sides, and a thousand other things he shouldn’t be wanting anymore. He wants it to be dark outside, wants to see the colored patterns Christmas lights would make on his tan skin. He wants to brush snowflakes out of his hair, kiss the taste of coffee and mint from his lips, and…

No.

Alex says, distractedly, more to the air than to Michael, “I’m glad I’m home this year.”

It takes a while for Michael to respond, battling with himself if it would cross the messy lines they’ve drawn, but eventually he says, “Me too. Christmas ain’t the same without you.”

Alex’s smile is brighter than the rising sun. “Merry Christmas, Michael. Let me get you some coffee.”

And he stands with his crutch, but then he pauses, just briefly, warm hand squeezing Michael’s shoulder hard as he passes and disappears into the house.

* * *

  1. _December 25, 2021 7:52 pm_



Michael flops onto the couch, arm going behind Alex’s shoulders, and Alex doesn’t hesitate to cuddle up, brush snowflakes out of his hair and kiss the cold edge of his jaw.

“Cold out there?” he murmurs, lips moving softly against the rasp of Michael’s stubble, the mix of sensations making him shiver more than any lingering cold.

“Yeah. You’re gonna have to warm me up,” Michael says, and walks his fingers down Alex’s arm to his waist, yanking him in so their bodies lie all together.

“Hmm.”

Alex settles in, hand sliding up the hem of Michael’s shirt, fingers drawing idle patterns across his chest. Winter is the best season when he’s surrounded by warmth, when he doesn’t have to worry about a shitty faulty generator, and when he’s surrounded by _love,_ too, the way Alex lets himself be held, lets himself be warmed by Michael’s incredible body heat. The Christmas tree takes up half of Alex’s usual composing space, a magnificent beast hand-picked by Michael for his first time having one, and it throws rainbow light all around them. It turns Alex as beautiful as Michael always dreamed it would, the colors not dissimilar to the iridescence of the alien handprint, and maybe, one day…

But he doesn’t need magic to feel what Alex is feeling right now, tucked against his side, twined together, their friends gone home for the night, their home quiet and peaceful, the two of them together on Christmas. He already knows. He feels it too.

Stella, their dog, bounds into the room, chasing a wad of wrapping paper straight under the corner table, where she bats uselessly at the gap it disappeared into a few times and then flops onto her side, tail beating against the floor, just waiting for her toy to leap out to play with her some more.

Alex’s chuckle resonates through Michael’s body too, pressed against his side, so Michael turns his head to rest his lips against Alex’s forehead.

“You going to help her out?” Alex asks.

“Nah, too comfy. She’ll figure it out.”

“I mean, you could always use your _brain._ ”

“Pshh.”

Michael whistles instead, patting the couch beside him, and Stella perks up right away, trots over, and leaps up to lay down beside them, between Alex and the couch, her head resting on Alex’s hip, gazing at both of them lovingly.

“Now neither of us can move ever again,” Michael teases, kissing Alex’s forehead again.

“Uh-huh. Clever.”

Alex snuggles in even further; Michael turns his body to help him get comfortable, give him more to rest against.

“Walt get home okay?” Alex asks.

“Yup, and in high enough spirits to gripe at me for nagging when I asked.”

Another one of Alex’s laughs rumbles through Michael’s chest in concert. “And Max and Isobel?”

“Home and home. Isobel’s going to be after you for that mulled wine recipe until you give in, you know.”

“I’m stubborn, I’ll outlast her.”

“Uh-huh. You heard from Maria and the Ortechos?”

“Safe and sound. Rosa sent a picture of the Crashdown to prove its decorations are better than ours.”

“Okay, okay.”

Michael falls silent, then, rubbing Alex’s arm absentmindedly, up and down, feeling each contour of muscle. Stella beats her tail rhythmically against Michael’s extended foot. Outside, the night is still and quiet and peaceful, as peaceful as any night as came before it.

“Everything okay?” Alex asks, lifting his head just enough to look at Michael’s face, and Michael turns to let him get a better look, smiling, too.

“Yeah. It’s all good. Just…”

Alex gives him time to think, to find the right words.

“It’s too bad Valenti had to work,” Michael says eventually.

“I didn’t know you cared so much,” Alex replies, raising his eyebrows.

Michael shrugs.

“He would have wanted to spend the time with his mom, anyway, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t know that the Sheriff would have come to our party.”

“That’s true.”

“Something else on your mind?”

“Other than how I still gotta clean up the kitchen, you mean?”

“We’ll do it together…whenever Stella lets us up.”

Her tail hasn’t missed a beat.

“But yeah,” Alex says, propping his chin on Michael’s shoulder, sliding his hand down Michael’s chest to wrap more firmly around his middle. “It seems like there’s something else you want to say.”

“Did you have a good time tonight? With that many people in the house?”

“Our place is kind of small; I wouldn’t want to do it all the time, but yeah, tonight was…nice. Playing host with you.” Alex’s smile is small, but every bit as bright as the lights reflecting in his eyes. “Michael Guerin, homemaker. I could swoon right now just picturing it.”

“Hey, you’re not so bad yourself.” Michael shifts so he can slip his thigh in between Alex’s without disturbing Stella too badly, though she still lifts her head to give him a reproachful look before resting it back on Alex’s hip. “That burgundy sweater you wore tonight? Had I seen it before? Because holy shit…”

Alex has dressed down by now, same time he took off his leg after seeing everyone off, and he’s no less sexy for it, but that doesn’t mean Michael doesn’t still lick his lips at the memory of Alex’s body under that soft knit, the deep, rich color against his skin, the darkness of his eyes… But now he’s blushing, and that’s at least as cute as earlier was sexy, so it’s a win/win really.

“I never thought I’d embrace Dad Fashion so easily,” Alex says, wryly. “Sixteen year old me would be devastated.”

Michael’s heart trips over. “Hey, Dad Fashion is cool now. And it definitely works for you.”

He leans in closer, ever closer, eyes closed, resting their noses alongside each other, foreheads together, almost a kiss but even more intimate, in some ways. And Alex doesn’t have to prompt him to speak again, to finally say what’s been on the tip of his tongue.

“I never thought…I would have anything like this. I mean, forget Christmas, just having—a place like this. So many people I can call family. Friends. Stella. And you. Anyone like you, really but…especially _you.”_

He opens his eyes, only to see Alex’s open too, watching him so closely.

“It’s what you deserve,” Alex murmurs. His arm tightens around Michael’s waist, pressing their chests together. His other hand goes into Michael’s hair, threading through his curls, clutching at him like he might ever even _think_ about pulling away. “This is all I ever wanted to give you. I’m so happy we’re finally…here.”

And a little choked up, Michael replies, “Me too, Alex. Me too.” Then, seized by a ridiculous hope he doesn’t even _try_ to squash, “And every Christmas after this, too.”


End file.
